Will You Call
by Funky In Fishnet
Summary: Dean Ambrose has a cellphone, okay? He doesn't use for anything other than texts, calls and offensive weaponry. The numbers he has saved on it are important and not always true.


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing._

* * *

 **WILL YOU CALL?**

Yes, Dean owns a cellphone, all right? He doesn't own a TV but he owes a cellphone. It's not like he gives the number out to everyone, or hardly anyone really. The front office like a number they can grasp, something they can use to drag some kind of fucking order out of him but they've got Cena and Seth for all that good soldier shit. And it's not like Dean always answers his phone anyways.

He's saved the front office number as **BLAH BLAH BLAH.**

* * *

Dean keeps his cellphone in his pocket mostly, shoved in with keys, gas station candy and Cheeto dust. There's no internet connection – what the hell? Why would he want the internet on his phone? He can call and text and that's all he needs.

Also he can use it as a weapon. He's pegged Jamie Noble in the face with it once before – he didn't leave any marks but there was a lot of whining. It kept Noble and Mercury a step or two behind him and Dean got his phone back. It wasn't like there was anything on there for them to steal anyway.

And he's wrapped his fingers around it for a punch before too. His phone is sturdy, durable. Dean knows to take every opening he's given. It's how he's collected so many scars. He's always looking for more.

* * *

There are numbers saved on his phone. Apart from the front office, there's Jimmy and Jey. Dean's gotten to know them through Roman and well, Roman's family so they're family too, that's what they say. It makes a hot knife slide through Dean's insides. Family means a lot of things. Roman knows bits and pieces because he's there when Dean thinks about it – memories are a bitch. Because Roman cares and makes breakfast, even when Dean asks for hot sauce for his eggs and dips his chocolate muffin in the result. Because Roman listens without demanding explanations. And afterward, he still holds Dean, a fucking warmth that Dean doesn't actually want to slash out at.

Yeah, so family. Dean's not wearing that one yet but he's hit a few bars with the twins and with Naomi – who hasn't given Dean her number. The twins painted his face once, a mask of silver and black that curled at his temples and down to the bridge of his nose. Dean's got a photo somewhere. The image makes his smile hurt.

Jimmy and Jey's numbers are saved as **Thing One** and **Thing Two.**

* * *

Dean hasn't deleted Seth's number. It stays logged because if Seth ever decides to call, Dean wants warning, even if it's just half a second. He'll take that.

Seth used to call him after CrossFit sessions; he'd call about dinner or whatever Dean had done to make him mad, there was always something. Not always on purpose either. It helped Seth come down after CrossFit, the aimlessness. Sometimes they'd just talk – remember that match? I heard from Jacobs the other day. You've got to stop eating that crap. Why?

Dean still thinks about those calls, about the laugh in Seth's voice and how he looked forward to hearing it, just as much as he loved and hoarded Seth's frustration. He thinks and Roman's there, kissing the back of his neck.

Seth's number is labeled **FUCK YOU.**

* * *

There are two bars on Dean's contact list. He's got great memories from both and hasn't been barred from either one yet. Bruce lets him take a shift behind his bar sometimes, just to see the look on customers' faces. The bouncers there take great punches.

There's also a couple of dozen switchboard services that can direct Dean to whatever number he wants. Perfect for when he's frequently in cities for one night only. There's one or two that have fucking snide operators, Dean's had a lot of fun with them. He calls them regularly.

Of course there's numbers for takeout places – more than once he's answered the door with blood dripping heavy in plain sight. So he always tips a little extra and lets his blood run. Those are good nights; grease and blood and the antiseptic smell that means no hospitals.

None of those numbers have cover names. They spell out their own purpose.

* * *

Roman's landline makes Dean smile. He's spent nights and days over there, hiding out, sleeping in. Dean feels comfortable there. In his mind, it blends with another Roman home. Dean once vaguely mentioned that he didn't do Christmas; it wasn't like he had family memories or some shit. It hadn't bothered him in years but Roman insisted on taking Dean home for Christmas, to where he grew up, a place filled with gorgeous people – Roman's genes were a fucking weapon – and the smell of roasting meat and there was a fuck-ton of food and booze and kids running around and Roman's mom hugged him.

Anyone's else house, Dean wouldn't have hung around. It was all so fucking alien, all of it, the biggest headfuck. It made Dean's skin tighten but then there was also Roman, looking so fucking happy, squeezing Dean's shoulder and taking his weight, and they were Roman's people, a lot of them wearing his smile. They were happy Dean was there too, no bullshit, no matter where Dean looked. Yeah.

Roman kissed him, tasting of beer and burned sugar from dessert. They fucked out by the pool, everyone else was inside by then but Dean was wrapped around Roman, lit up by the lights covering the trees. Dean pressed close, he always pushed for consumption, for a greedy burn. Roman answered with bites and tender kisses, his strong grasp never loosening. They both ended up in the pool, fully clothed. No one disturbed them.

Roman has a fancier cellphone than Dean. It gets the internet and takes photos and videos. Dean knows he's high on Roman's speed-dial list. Dean texts him daily. There's always something he wants to say. Roman always answers.

Roman's landline is **Home.** Roman's cellphone is **Better.**

 _-the end_


End file.
